


worse than death

by Prim_the_Amazing



Category: The Dragon Prince (Cartoon)
Genre: Captivity, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, M/M, Non-Consensual, Rape/Non-con Elements, Viren Is Evil, runaan has a Very Bad Time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-23
Updated: 2018-09-23
Packaged: 2019-07-15 22:59:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16073144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prim_the_Amazing/pseuds/Prim_the_Amazing
Summary: Harrow had always thought that he leaned too much on his ‘creative solutions’.Maybe he could make the elf cave without any magic at all.





	worse than death

_Something worse than death,_  he thinks, mentally going over every spell ingredient he has, possible combinations and applications listing themselves off. He’s lounging in what should be the king’s room, except that they currently have no king, or ruler. Foolish.

Viren sleeps in the king’s bed anyways. No one can stop him from _that,_  at least.

His eyes land on ‘Pip’. The bird never sings any longer. It’s glaring at him. Viren reflexively smiles at it.

Harrow had always thought that he leaned too much on his ‘creative solutions’.

Maybe he could make the elf cave without any magic at all.

 

The mirror is still in the dungeon, but covered, standing unobtrusively in the corner. He closes the door behind him. He intends for no one in the dungeon to ever make it out alive, so it doesn’t matter what any of them see or hear, but there is such a thing as modesty.

The elf glares up at him with silent hatred. He is suddenly overwhelmingly reminded of Harrow, and he crosses the distance between them and grasps the elf’s chin to forcefully tilt it up.

“You’re being unreasonably stubborn,” he tells him. “Are you sure that you won’t tell me what the mirror does? Last chance.”

The elf says nothing.

“Very well,” Viren says, unsurprised. “Just know that you have the power to stop what’s about to happen at any moment that you wish. You just have to tell me about the mirror. If you don’t, well, then what happens is your own fault.”

“I am already dead,” the elf says.

Viren is beginning to grow tired of that phrase. He reaches out and digs his fingers into the elf’s decaying arm. A soft strangled noise is scraped out of his throat as his face goes slack with pain.

Viren kisses him.

After a long moment of the elf being taught and stiff with pain, he wrenches himself away from Viren as far as he can go, his back and head pressed up against the wall. He looks at Viren wide eyed, like he’s an unpredictable and dangerous beast. Viren smiles at him as heat turns over in the pit of his stomach. He likes that look. Fear is only respect under a more honest name.

He runs his hand up the elf’s side, caressing. The elf twitches away, but Viren just follows him. The elf is in chains. The elf hasn’t eaten in days. He is weak and restrained. He really won’t need any magic to do this to a  _moonelf._

“You’ve put yourself in this position,” he says.

“You will die,” the elf says, still too pale and wide eyed and helpless for the threat to carry any weight. “Someone will kill you--”

“Shush,” he says. He should perhaps be encouraging talking, but the elf isn’t saying anything  _useful,_  or even fun.

He starts undoing the clasps and ties on the elf’s clothing, undressing him. The elf breathes heavily, chest heaving, and he fruitlessly tries to jerk away from Viren’s hands, trying and failing to stop him. Viren spreads his shirt open to reveal a canvas of bruises, courtesy of a squad of soldiers furious at losing their king. His stomach is well muscled and his ribs are visible. He presses his fingers down on the bruises, stroking. Not as much of a reaction as when he’d clamped down on the dying arm, but the elf’s eyes and mouth tighten.

His expression is one of defiance fading into fear.

“The mirror?” he asks.

 _“No,"_ the elf hisses, anger rearing back up to the surface, overtaking fear.

“How unfortunate for you.”

He can’t entirely take the elf’s shirt off without unshackling him, which would just be foolish, but he can tug his shoes and pants off entirely. The elf brings his legs up to cover himself, but he just takes him by the knees and forcibly spreads them, putting him on display. So weak. A thrill runs through him at it. He’s not used to being the physically strong one.

The elf averts his face, legs straining against Viren’s hands. A strangely colored flush is rising to his cheeks.

“Shy?” he inquires.

“I am already dead,” the elf tells himself, voice quiet.

“You shouldn’t be,” he says, surveying. “You look fine.”

“Dead,” the elf says.

He reaches into one of his many hidden pockets in which he tends to carry spell ingredients, and retrieves a small vial of oil. He uncorks it and pours it over his fingers. He leans in to kiss the elf again. He squirms away, and Viren hits his cheek instead. He trails kisses down to his neck as he works his fingers into him.

A noise that is more breath than voice escapes the elf, reminding him of the breathless gasp of a man suddenly stabbed.

“You’re very tight,” he praises against his throat. Tense and quivering, upset and horrified. He can already tell that it will feel good to thrust into this.

“You’re dead,” the elf says, eyes closed.

Viren moves his fingers to remind him just how alive he is. The elf makes a soft keening pained noise. Honestly. Viren  _knows_  that his technique is good. He’s just being dramatic.

“The mirror,” he murmurs.

“No,” the elf says, sounding like he’s talking through a wound.

Viren knows that it’s too early, but he pulls out his fingers anyways. He unbuckles his pants to the sight of the elf trying to suppress his shivering. He smiles at it. The elf doesn’t see it, as he’s determinedly staring at the mirror in the corner, as if to remind himself how important it is that he remain silent. Viren touches himself, and is unsurprised to find himself already hard. 

The elf is beautiful, after all.

His member covered in oil, he lines himself up against the elf’s entrance.

“Last chance,” he says.

The elf says nothing, perfectly tense and unmoving, not even breathing.

After a moment, Viren moves in. Slow and languorous, taking his time and relishing in the feeling. It’s been too long.

God, he really is tight. A groan scrapes out of him. The elf’s eyes are tightly shut, his teeth grit and jaw clenched. His healthy hand clenched into a fist.

Viren reaches out and threads his fingers through the elf’s fingers. The dying one. Limp and stiff. A broken noise is torn out of the elf, as if Viren just broke one of his limbs. He squeezes. The elf writhes in pain.

It pushes him down on Viren, and he closes his eyes and groans with satisfaction at how good it feels.

And then he starts thrusting into him.

The elf finally loses control of himself entirely.

“No,” he says. “Stop,” he says. “Don’t,” he says.

“Tell me,” Viren pants.

He doesn’t. He just bites out desperate protests. But he never bargains, never pleads. Moonelves are truly something else.

“This is on you,” he grunts, thrusting up into the tight warm heat of him. The elf keeps struggling against him, trying to get away, and it feels almost as good as if he were moving to meet him. “You could stop this, but you refuse.”

“Dead,” the elf gasps. “I am already--”

Viren harshly thrusts into him in time with a vicious squeeze on his decaying hand. The elf breaks off into a pained cry.

He looks better like this, losing control underneath Viren, instead of defiantly glaring up at him. He has the look of a panicked animal in his eyes. Viren laughs fondly, breathlessly, and leans down to kiss him underneath one eye.

“No,” he says, voice so weak. A single tear escapes him. Viren feels warm and strong. 

He thrusts into him until his muscles ache and burn, and he keeps going. The elf feels so slick and _good._

“At least you’re useful for something,” he pants, and then he touches the elf’s member and starts stroking him.

The elf cries out like he just touched his arm, and he renews his frantic bucking to get away. It only works against him, moving him onto Viren and against his palm. Viren strokes him expertly.

“You’re a beauty in chains, you know,” he tells the elf lowly, and leans down to kiss him with mocking gentleness as he works him over.

The elf  _bites_  him.

Viren jerks with pain, tries to get away. He doesn’t get far, as the elf refuses to let go. Viren tightens his grip on his member and his hand both until he lets go with a soft cry of agony. Viren furiously grasps his chin as he leans away, licks his own lip, tastes blood.

“You really are bloodsuckers,” he remarks, and then slaps the elf in the face as harshly as he can manage. And then he grabs and hoists the elf up by the underside of his knees, angling him perfectly, and he thrusts into him with true abandon.

He doesn’t stop until he comes, a soft fracturing of pleasure. He doesn’t pull out as he recovers, as he’s warm and comfortable right where he is. He opens his eyes to gaze down at the elf. There are tear tracks on his face now. Satisfying.

“The mirror?” he asks.

The elf silently bares his teeth at him. It doesn’t carry any intimidation for him at all, with him so helpless and debauched in front of him.

“Well, that’s too bad,” he says, and pulls out and starts putting himself in order. “Until next time, then. Do you know that there’s a spell that can force arousal on someone? You would be begging for release.”

And then he stands up and walks away without dressing the elf, leaving him bare and leaking to ruminate on that thought.

“Dead,” the elf whispers to himself as Viren closes the door behind him.


End file.
